


adagio allegro

by writingfromthevoid (luciferxrising)



Series: A Constructed Destiny [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11715444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferxrising/pseuds/writingfromthevoid
Summary: adagioəˈdɑː(d)ʒɪəʊMUSICadverb & adjective1.(especially as a direction) in slow time.//allegroəˈlɛɡrəʊ,əˈleɪɡrəʊMUSICadverb & adjective1.(especially as a direction) at a brisk speed.





	adagio allegro

**Author's Note:**

> this is a short thing i wrote after a pretty brutal battle in our last session. it spelled the end for one of our characters, and many tears were shed. mostly mine.  
> quick rundown of the party: rorik (by me) is a human rogue, morana (played by rose) is a tiefling warlock, traxae (played by tori) is an eladrin fighter and skamor (played by chiel) is a tiefling ardent. our wonderful DM is called tom!

Some of the stories he has read, about adventures and epic battles, describe it as time slowing down. About everything moving slowly, about tragedies unfolding in a minute pace.

            For Rorik, at that moment, everything seems to speed up.

            Here is what happens:

Traxae wakes him, in a flurry of movement. He shoots up, a quick once-over, everything is in place, he runs.

            Dwarves, and a female leader right in the middle, on the bow of the sand dasher. He runs, shoots, throws her back.

            It’s not enough.

            He gets hit maybe once, a solid blow of a hammer that reverberates as a dull ache, but adrenalin is a powerful thing and he grits his teeth and bears it, shooting at dwarves, a random pattern, his aim precise but it’s not enough, not enough.

            Not enough to help Traxae.

            The sword pierces her

            (and he’s up high, he can see where it slides between her ribs and comes out on the other side and he can’t see her face but he knows blood must be gathering in her throat, in her mouth, and he selfishly hopes she spits it out, that would be cool, classic Traxae)

            and she falls.

            And he screams, but this is not a story and there is no slow-motion, there is no freezing in place and screaming in anguish, there is only his legs carrying him, past Morana, down the stairs, and he’s shooting, desperate, aim true, but not enough, not enough.

            Not enough to save her.

            The hammer comes down on her pretty face

            (and he winces, like it’s a personal insult, and it would be, to her, she always did care so much for her appearance)

            and he can hear the skull _crack,_ cave in, and he doesn’t know when he started crying but he notices, now, translucent tears turning black as they mix in with his face paint, so carefully applied, only a little smudged from sleep.

            The dwarves run for it. He can see Skamor hesitate, turn towards the fleeing enemies, but then rush over to Traxae’s side.

            He’s not a healer, but he can see when something is futile.

            There is still a smidgen of hope in his heart, but he has no time to focus on it when he’s running, chasing the leader of the group

            (he knows it won’t help, but Traxae would want him to avenge her, he knows that too)

            and then the sound of wood on wood registers and he stops short. Turns.

            And _this_ is when time slows down, like his brain can’t quite process what his eyes are seeing.

            Their prisoner, weathered and famished, slowly moving towards Traxae, peg leg counting out the beats.

            A hand lighting up in flames.

            The smell of scorching skin.

            The satisfied look of someone who knows they’re going to die, and they’re going to make the most of their last moments.

            Rorik shoots him. He sets the sail on fire and Rorik shoots him again. He falls.

            Time speeds back up.

            Rorik yells out for everyone to get to the back of the ship, then cuts the burning sail down. The wind catches it, and it drifts towards the last manned silt skimmer.

            The flames catch. Screams start to rise up from below deck. He only has to make eye contact with his companions for a second before the three of them rush towards the burning ship, climbing on board and running downstairs. Rorik has his lockpicks in his hand in a second, wrenching open four of the cages, but the last one jams, and smoke is filling the room and Skamor is ushering him upstairs, so upstairs he goes, leading the slaves out through the fire and smoke and terror.

            They all make it. Rorik doesn’t know how, but they do.

            He sinks to his knees, pulls Traxae’s mangled head into his lap. His fingers card through her hair, pulling loose knots, and then patches, and he’s crying again, or maybe he never stopped.

            He doesn’t know where he finds the words to speak to the rescued slaves. When he thinks back later, he can barely remember what he said. Time skips and jumps and starts, and it’s too fast again, one moment he’s holding a stone, and a letter, the other moment Traxae is burning as a foreign language rises up in song all around him.

            It’s not enough.

            Traxae wasn’t meant to rest in silt and sand, she belonged to the trees and the earth. He clutches her last gift in his hand like it’s a lifeline, presses his lips to it and whispers pleas to a goddess he never worshipped but always believed in.

 

He dreams of ravens and tangled webs and suffocating smoke.

 

When he wakes up, time passes like it always does.


End file.
